Milch de la Maquina!

I have to delete the butts

I am sitting at Brickyard pizza sipping slowly on a second beer. I have been looking for work like a pinata looking for candy: that is anywhere except within. (Do pinata's look within?). But recently something shifted and I decided to enjoy myself a lot more. Therefore I began a different job search which was instigated by the creation of a magic spell which I wrote on three bright pieces of paper, blessed with water, a found marble and a rock I got from a friend found at the junction of a river and the ocean. I also dressed in pink (an outfit I am still wearing now (24 hours later)). Thus prepared I got on my bike and personally began an investigation of three places I would love to work in Albuquerque.

At this point I am aware that whatever other actions I take in my search for a job in Albuquerque (by September 1st!) the job is now taking care of itself. Each enthusiastic word, bike ride, old lady I talk to, plum I eat in the interest of the job will help me, but I may have no idea what is really happening until it's all fallen together--- candy piled on the metaphorical ground that is my life.

In this cosmic state of job searching I have begun sifting through craigslist by searching for words like "beautiful" and "soul." I found an interesting opportunity that I responded to using this method, and wanted to attach a link to my blog when I realized that one of my most recent posts contains a picture of two butts.

Waiting with Legs

Aloha!

Waiting at the Kona open air airport. Me, flouner (found flower), and night.

What hour is this in the hours of travel? The eleventh? I have returned to the mainland, Mahalo U.S. Airways. But now but one-hour-flight-away from home the plane's rudder malfunctions and I find myself seated on the carpet of the Phoenix airport.

The carpet of the phoenix airport:

It looks like planes poised precariously in the midst of a thousand simultaneous tornadoes--- Or maybe the planes were hurled into a giant pond. The ripples in each of their wakes only block them briefly from smashing into each other.

So anyways, I'm seated here on disaster carpeting, drinking my Cinnabon coffee, hoping I get to Albuquerque in time to play a show. Is this how the Beatles felt? Did their plane rudder ever malfunction. I'm calling it a rudder, but maybe it's not called that.

In any case airplanes are a lot like boats. I was on a kayak yesterday in the pacific ocean. Green water everywhere, forever. Sometimes I got tired of rowing and watched the green hills of water lift me higher than the shore, then the hill would roll past and I'd be below it watching the shore retreat further every time. I panicked a little thinking I might be pulled out to sea. I would float, but I would be so thirsty and dizzy.

With this in mind I used the paddle again trying to pull a little in the direction I wanted to go. It seemed ridiculous pulling myself along the surface of the such a huge animal as the ocean. Like a mite making slow progress across the hairs of a running cat. But I did get to shore, and rode the last wave in like a roller coaster. Oh! Wahoo!

The sea near Waimanalo, O'ahu (renamed: Oh! Wahoo!) out of the car window. It was this turquoise sea that coaxed me silently out farther and farther from the shore.

I began this journey last night at 8 0'clock. I flew from Honolulu to Kona, and spent the next six hours sleeping fitfully between a soldier-type with a huge bull tattooed on his thigh, and a tiny coughing Japanese woman.

I woke up again and again: my head was rolling around in that horrible way it does on the plane or in a morning lecture. My knees felt like they'd been banging into things. My eyes closed compulsively. I had tiny dreams of my nephews' and niece's mouths. They have funny round mouths filling up with teeth and words. They were the most amazing funny thing in Hawaii for sure.

My mouth tries to be as funny.

An hour has passed since the last announcement. No news is good news, but in this case, no news is simply no news. New news would be nice. I'd like new nice news now, or nearly now. I'm negotiating finding another coffee shop. Negotiating with my legs.

Me: "Legs. If you stand up you can go look for coffee." said in a wheedling voice,

Legs: "But our knees hurt inexplicably and you don't even know where the sweet sweet coffee is!"

Me: "I'll give you two dollars!"

Legs: "That's a trick! It will still be your two dollars"

Me: "True true, clever legs..."

Legs: "yip."

Me: "You hear that legs? Yeah, that's right, another hour, at least. We might need that coffee."

Legs: "...or something a little stronger."

TO BE CONTINUED...

(2 minutes later)
Me: "Wait! Legs! oho! There's a new aircraft! Gate B5! Gate B5!"

The Excellent Adventures of My Bicycle

This bicycle wants to be my bicycle. That's the only way to explain it. The week I arrived in Albuquerque I found it at a garage sale for $25. I bought it because I could afford it and it was a perfect fit. I got it some pumped up tires, brakes that functioned, a helmet and a lock. Set!

Me and my bicycle spent a lot of happy time together, learning to bike up hills, going to work, zipping around the unpaved paths by the river both of us praying that all the goat-heads would decide to leave the tires un-punctured (on that topic: praying seems to be an adequate way of avoiding goat-heads. I've had only one tire punctured and I think it was time for that tire to go anyways. I wouldn't recommend the same tactic as birth control). Oh yes, we really enjoyed all of the adventures that Albuquerque could offer.

Bike Portrait No. 1

But since Albuquerque is sort of a wide place, like other towns in America, we would sometimes take the bus together too. It was on one such day when I had my first parental pang of absolute loss. Let me start at the beginning. It was an ordinary day. I'd decided to take the bus to work and bike home later. I perched my bicycle on the rack of the bus and admired it. My bike is a pretty bike. It's hipsterishly slim, blue, and has nice curved handle bars. It's heavier than it looks, but that's all I care about --looks.
"I really like my bike" I thought contentedly, then I got on the bus. On the way I noticed a woman I knew from work sitting near the front, "I should probably talk to her" I thought. I moved nearer to her and we had a nice conversation that continued as we got off the bus at the same stop. About 15 minutes later, while making a photo copy I realized my horrible mistake. I had as much as left my child strapped to the front of an Albuquerque bus!

Horrified I rushed outside, hyperventilating and yammering to the man on the phone at the Albuquerque hot line. He informed me that since I'd just gotten on the bus 15 minutes ago the same bus would be coming by in about 10 minutes. I should wait at the same stop and see if my bike came back around.

"But can't you radio the bus driver and let him know I'm here waiting for the bike, and not to let anyone else take it" I asked desperately.

"Sorry mam, but we can't let our bus driver's risk their lives like that!"
replied the man on the phone.

Either Albuquerque is a million times more dangerous than I thought, or this guy is being kind of snarky.

I called my father and complained about the situation to pass the time. He was sympathetic and powerless. I saw the bus pull up at the stop before mine, a bike was on it, could it be? I saw an old man get off the bus and take the bike. What if that's my bike? Uh oh. There was another bike on the bus so I waited until it came to my stop, nope, not mine.
"Damn!" I yelled into the phone.
"What?" my dad asked.
"I think that old guy took my bike!"
"Maybe it was his bike," suggested my dad.
"I don't know I have a bad feeling about it" I rejoined. I ran up to the other stop and looked around, nothing. I complained to my father some more. He tried to comfort me, saying something about 'it might not have been the right bus,' or, more likely 'easy come easy go,' but by now I was being filled with an enraged assurance that that man had definitely taken my bike. I scanned the parking lot in front of Lowe's.
"Wait! That's the guy!" The slowest bike thief ever, he was foolin' around with a grocery bag. He got on the bike and sort of shakily started peddling away. I couldn't visually verify with certainty that it was mine because he was too far away and the sun was in my eyes, but I was certain emotionally. With motherly rage I said "hold on" into the phone and started running. I wondered briefly as I turned a corner onto a side street if I would end up risking my life to save my bike. Thanks a lot bus driver!

I chased panting after the man as he wobbled along in front of me. When I was within hearing range I yelled "Hey! Excuse me! Sir!" Being so politely addressed he stopped and looked back "Did you just get off of the number 10 bus?" I said, buying time and gaining ground as I walked quickly towards him.
"No," he replied. But by this time I was close enough to see. The man had my bike.
"Well sir," I said, "I left my bike on there sir, and that's my bike" And I pointed. This would be the life-risking portion of the day according to the man at the Albuquerque hot-line. I waited terrified. The old guy attempted to look confused. He sort of shuffled off the bike and said "Oh... okay" and handed it over. I got on and biked away as fast as possible. A way better get away than his. Once I was safely around a series of corners I remembered my dad still on the phone,

My Yellow Handle Bars At Night.

"I got it back!" I said breathlessly
"You did!? That's great!" he replied.

Then I explained the sounds of running and yelling that he'd been a witness to.

"I'm so proud of you! You're very capable. Now I know that you can take care of yourself!"

I was proud of my dad's approval and pleased to have my child back safe and sound. I rode home and made a promise to watch it like a hawk every time I rode the bus.

VOLUME TWO: Promises Broken

Time passed, my bike and I grew closer with each passing day. I put bright yellow tape on her handle bars and covered her ripped seat with flowered oil cloth to protect it from mold. We spent the summer pushing the limits of hills and heat. We experimented with carrying mad amounts of art supplies or groceries creatively, balancing them on our backs and handlebars. We went on mad cap adventures with friends! In short, WE RULED.

Bike Portrait No. 2

All this time I was a lot more careful riding the bus, forever checking to see if my yellow handle bars could be glimpsed bobbing outside the front window. When I got off the bus I would tell the bus driver, "I'm going to grab my bike." I was cautious. But you only have to mess up once.

It happened a few days ago. I was taking the bus to work with several of my co-workers. We were having some interesting conversations and all forgot to pull the string for our stop. We were all in a muddle as we quickly scrambled off and power-walked to work. I didn't even realize my oversight. All day long at work I was happy as a clam, playing with kids, coming up with ideas, and imagining my relaxing bike ride home. "I really need it!" I thought contentedly.

At then end of the day my roommate asked if I was biking home.
"Yes!" I replied enthusiastically,
"Where's your bike?" she asked. I pointed to where I usually put it, saw that I was pointing at nothing and deflated.
"Oh no..."

I had been so sure I had it. My muscle memory of taking my bike off the bus everyday must have filled in the gap. I walked outside with a general blah feeling of too-lateness, I'd left the bike on the bus 8 hours ago. I called the hot-line to file a report. My brother and Stef listened as I described my bike, "It's blue with yellow tape and an oil cloth seat with flowers on it, and it has a sticker that says 'Adam Hooks is dead' and another one that says 'I killed a zombie today at Burning Paradise Video" My brother whispered, "you're a weirdo."

My bike decked out, in the background of the bird pic.

The woman filed the report anyway, and told me they'd call me if they found it. She told me I could also check at the Alvarado Transportation Center Mon-Fri 8am-5pm. Rather hopelessly I quietly accepted the loss of my bike. I didn't let it get me down to much during the weekend, except it stung when I was invited on a bike ride. So I borrowed a bike from a friend and got back to business.

Monday was president's day so the Bus Station was closed. I biked up the hill on my friends bike and found it much easier to use. Maybe I could borrow this bike permanently. I slowed down at a busy street to check for cars. I wasn't seated. There was traffic so I braked quickly and was surprised at how much better the brakes functioned on this bike compared to my own. But I pondered this from the ground because the much better brakes had flipped me over the handle bars into the street. I was lucky. My elbow was a little skinned and one knee hurt. There had been no head to concrete interaction. I got back on the horse and thought ruefully of how dangerous it was to ride a bike that worked so much better than mine!

So today came. Today is Tuesday. I stopped by the Bus Station on the borrowed bike to see if they had my beloved bicycle. If I really believe it maybe they will have it. If they have it I might have to explain to someone why I have two bikes. I arrived at the station and told the two women behind the counter my problem. They consulted a security guard in the back who swaggered out about 5 minutes later. He asked me what kind of bike I'd lost. I described it in detail. "Flowers eh?" he said and disappeared again. He came back about 10 minutes later and asked me for my I.D. This time he left for about 15 minutes and the women started joking about how slow he was.

I wanted to know if he had my bike and was somehow cross referencing my name with crime records, or if he had stolen my bike and my i.d., or if I was going to be accused of stealing a bike that wasn't mine! Finally he returned and slowly drew a line under the photocopy of my i.d. Then he slowly wrote the date next to that. The women at the desk kept making fun of him, and that slowed him down some more. Finally he said, "sign on this line and I'll release your bike to you."

No way. I signed and smiled, he walked away to get my bike. My bike! Complete with stickers, flowers, yellow handle bars, u-lock and bike light! Hell yes!

Bits of Bike, Pre-Stickers

And then, just as a little icing on the cake, the universe deposited a nice man on his day off into my life. I had barely begun the formidable struggle of coaxing both bikes home when this man stopped and asked why I had two bikes. Being prepared for someone to ask I immediately told him the whole story. Kindly, he asked if he could ride one of them somewhere for me. Naturally, I was suspicious but I figured I could probably chase him down if I needed to. So we biked the 14 blocks to my house and I kept him tethered closely to me with friendly conversation. I thanked him profusely and he walked back downtown. Like I said, the icing on the cake.

The long and the short of my bike's many adventures? My bike still wants to be my bike. We can still both try to care for each other, to love each other. And we will try, we'll try our best.

Communion In February. It's all the rage.

It's happening. It's happening. It's all happening at once.

Dr. Albuquerque

The little hemp-pants wearing man set me immediately at ease. His matching sage green shirt, socks, and eyes (the texture of dried glue) did too. In a matter of mismatched moments he danced in and out of a rolling chair, examined my sore throat, twiddled the sides of his mouth, and announced that he was ready for retirement. He wrote out a prescription in scrawly doctor print, and handed it to me. His eyes gleamed beams at me as he firmly negated my attempts at self diagnosis. This wiley old man, a slight-egoist wearing tan crocs, is my kind of doctor.

Third Communion

Communion was made of magic, again. Even though everyone was sick and had been for weeks, even though I'd recently suffered a dramatic flesh wound, and even though a little yappy dog named Dooley had kept us up the night before Communion went off like a charmed fireworks.


Piles of firewood delivered themselves to our door (with a little help from our friend Dave and his truck), guests arrived bearing bottles of wine and boxes of chocolates, accordians, violins, guitars and harmonicas crowded into our living room, people I had never met before introduced themselves to me in the kitchen, little boys fell asleep on the couch, fathers suggested songs their sons might play on the banjo, Dooley (the little terror) settled into Stef's lap and never uttered a sound.



There were harmonies, covers, sailor songs, kazoo accompaniments, gospel solos, instrumentals, and breif strange acappella moments. I was watching the fire and listening to a song about Albuquerque when it hit me. I am someone who lives in Albuquerque and invites people to play music in her living room. I was shocked for a moment observing what my life had conspired to do with itself!



After everyone had swept themselves out of the house I lay for a while sleepily and wine(ely) on the couch, then tucked myself into bed. I woke up and in the same moment opened my eyes to see the moon peeking in my window. Then I stumbled into the kitchen to find some water and noticed with the same bright moon clarity that it was 4:44 in the morning. Before finally falling alseep again I mused on magic.

SEE THE MAGIC.

Blurry Documentation of Second Communion. Soft Like it was.

Communion Dos, Photo Album!

The link will take you to the blurry documentation album.

Note: The beautiful photos from above are not available on facebook, only here, you lucky person.

Oh, Albuquerque

Every time I say "albuquerque" in my head I pronounce it like a huge handful of syllables.  My return to Albuquerque has been like a return home. Wow. Isn't that a big stone to drop in a small sentence. But it feels like a return to home because all of my things are here, and my job is here, and my concentric circles of knowing the city are ever widening.  As we flew into Albuquerque I recognized my tall buildings.  The ones that are lit up green and purple, the empty ones, the ones that mark the border of downtown.  Really the ones a couple of blocks from my house.  "Wow! I thought as I flew over, that's where I live!"  Then the Albuquerque air was incredibly clear and cold, and that was such a relief somehow.  I opened my door, the one in my room to look at the stars and breathe the air.  Then I closed it and went to sleep.  

I've been looking at everything more closely for the last couple of days and I've found: a small secret red door that leads to the fireplace, a high flying bird of the sort that I was certain only lived in Oregon, and several small round holes tucked high into the stucco of our house that might be birds nests! New, new new!  

When I was in middle school I wrote a Jane Austen type novel. It's very short, and not very good.  I read half of it last night as I floated off to sleep.  I would love to give you, the "reader" the gist of it:

"Society was one of his favorite things" 

"The man never tired of pursuing friendships, or in this case was it romance?" 

 "Their faces became full of light when pronounced man and wife" 

"Duke Elliot took a seat at the end of the room, much as a slug would, very slowly and with a painfully disinterested look." 

"her beauty was as great as ever, and he was utterly lost from it's benefits by her continued indifference."

I am thinking that I will take this poor little book in like a half drowned bird and I will nurse it until it is absolutely chock full of hilarious and ridiculous metaphores! Then I will let it fly away and please everyone that reads it. 

Where is the Sun Today?

What a dreary moment. The rain seems to have couched itself over Albuquerque just as my darling Stephanie has returned to North Dakota for Christmas.  Last night I gushed enthusiastically to some new friends about how wonderful this place is, emphasizing the sun.  But where is the sun today!? Oh me oh my o.  

Albuquerque

Albuquerque, I have heard recently, is a land of the brokenhearted. This idea interests me because locals are forever cryptically calling this the land of entrapment --although the license plates insist it is the land of "enchantment." What is it about Albuquerque that has it stepping between love and loss?  Neil Young wrote a sad song about Albuquerque.  I am downloading it now, so I can listen, and hopefully, understand.

Here is comes!  Now I am listening to the strains of "Albuquerque." As I listen I will muse.  

Driving back from the community center where I work in the "war zone" I was drawn into a discussion about the garish lights and signs that are so central to Burque's mystique.  The conversation lead me to proclaim that 'some people don't do things to do them beautifully.'  But then I realized that after they do these things without beauty in mind, beauty still comes.  Once, I wandered into the reference library downtown and found a book of photographs documenting the signs of Albuquerque.  They advertised fuel, fast food, and hotels- and they were beautiful all seen together like that.

That's how the signs are here.  They are grouped together, lining the longest, most tired stretches of roads.  My favorite garish and aging advertising remnant is sculpture of a lumberjack sitting on a pole twenty feet up and reaching twenty feet higher.  I have never found out what he's advertising. There aren't many lumberjacks here.

Actually there aren't a whole lot of trees here either.  The only place you can really find a lot of trees is down by the Rio Grande which is quickly becoming my favorite part of Albuquerque. While the streets are crowded with loud reds and bellowing yellows on all the signage, the river and all that surrounds it is a comfortable range of browns.  The river is chocolate milk, the leaves are aging orange, the ground is thick brown, the goat-heads are a kind of blonde, and the wood comes in a variety of shades between stark white and black.  The overall effect is extremely calming.  I feel that I am being reintegrated into the earth when I am by the river because there is such a contrast between the low brown everything and the exemplary unending sky.

Maybe it's something about the difference between the land and the sky that makes this a heartbroken place.  We are exceptionally close to impossible empty beauty from the vantage of our brown river, and our prickly plants.  Maybe the gaudy yellow and flashing neon signs intervene in this relationship: each glowing "El Rey" and "Red Ball Cafe" a lonely love letter to the sky.

It's raining

It's raining in a drizzly way for the first time in Albuquerque.  I'm listening to music and editing the title of my blog (soo much), and thinking.  I just put up a story on facebook. Please look at it.  Click Here

I've been thinking about la llorona, because of a play I saw, and I would like to write about how she is the same as Ophelia very soon.

Also:

What is beautiful today?

There is something nice about coming home at night, after the cool has set in.  And being the only one up in the house.  Reading a letter in silence and flourescense.  

I ask people the same question : what is the most beautiful thing you've seen today? I want to know the answer because beauty could mean something sad or happy.  Beauty to me distinguishes something remarkable.  And it flushes out a moment.  I remember walking down a grey street with Ilana on a wet Eugene day.  The colors of the plants were bright in the rainy light.  We were speaking, one at a time, exactly that which was in us.  

I want a new answer to this question "what is the most beautiful thing that you've seen today?" every day. It doesn't have to be a sight really. It's the experience that is beautiful.  Today I witnessed a family forming.  It is bright and loving and really, really funny, it's made of strangers who somehow pooled themselves together in Albuquerque... Imagining what really brought each of us here is exciting. Why are we here? What are we teaching each other? That is the most beautiful thing I saw today.